


Holler Just to Be Heard

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander makes terrible choices, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Does sex with a hologram count as masturbation?, Holodeck Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual, Pain, Pining, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Spanking, fantasy scenario, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: His captain will never touch him—will sure as hell never hurt him the way Hamilton craves—so he finds other outlets to satisfy himself.





	Holler Just to Be Heard

It's stupid, and risky, and Alexander does it anyway.

Once every couple months, give or take. When the itch is too much. When the force of _want_ beneath his skin is enough to distract him at his post. When he can feel his captain's attention on him across the bridge, heavy with concern but reluctant to call him out.

It's not as though Hamilton is ever less than competent. But Captain Washington knows him well enough to recognize when _something_ is wrong.

Hamilton can't admit—to anyone—that Washington himself is the problem. No one can know Alexander wants his captain in ways that are sure to get him reassigned. So he comes here instead. He spends his precious few holodeck hours locked away in a carefully crafted fantasy. No interruptions, no responsibilities, no limitations. Exactly the way he likes it.

He's deactivated the safeties—strictly against Starfleet regulations—and blocked his own ability to end the simulation before it finishes running its course. A ship-wide alert or a direct comm from outside will end the program instantly, but here within the confines of the holodeck? Hamilton is helpless and vulnerable and _cannot_ change his mind once the simulation begins.

His surroundings are smoky tonight. One of his favorite scenarios, a crowded bar on the seedy side of some anonymous port city. The setup is detailed, but worth the extra time. An away mission, a leering local contact, a drink that strips away Washington's inhibitions. Washington and Hamilton are the only humans in this room. They are a novelty. And when their leering host's eyes settle on Hamilton—when conversation turns appreciative and inappropriate—Washington plays along instead of shutting the insinuations down. He puts his hands on Hamilton. Announces that he will not share, but he's happy to put on a show.

They're well past the intricate foreplay now. Hamilton has finished fighting and been gloriously overpowered. He's been gagged by a cloth napkin to silence his pleading, his wrists bound painfully at the small of his back.

He lies on his stomach across Washington's lap, on a couch visible to the entire damn bar. The bottom half of his uniform is gone, boots and all.

His entire body shudders as Washington's palm lands, loud and heavy, on the stinging flesh of his ass. It hurts like hell; his captain has been spanking him for what feels like an hour—tormenting and punishing and beating him soundly. Worse, Hamilton altered the program last time he was here, rendering his fantasy-captain even stronger; the blows are inhumanly powerful, and they _hurt_.

Hamilton knows from previous experience that his ass will be raw and red when he leaves the holodeck, and purpled with deep bruises by morning. He'll probably need to use the dermal regenerator he has squirreled away in his quarters to contend with the damage.

He screams into his gag as another blow lands, even heavier than the one before. His senses swim. He is in agony, so overwhelmed that if he _could_ deactivate the program he might—which is exactly why he has deprived himself of that ability. He breathes a muffled sob when Washington massages overheated skin more gently for a moment, only to land another stinging blow a second later.

There are noisy cheers from the surrounding bar. Their audience has grown since Washington overpowered him and put Hamilton over his knee. Dozens of patrons circle them now, egging Washington on. Shouting awful things. Goading Washington to hurt him, lay into him harder. Laughing at Hamilton's tears of pain and humiliation.

Shame heats Alexander's face, and he twists ineffectually atop Washington's lap, unable to squirm away. He's crying, hard and helpless, and his wrists chafe at the ropes restraining him. His queue is still tied back, messy but intact. Washington refuses to let him hide behind a curtain of hair.

Washington's left hand is heavy where it curls around the nape of Hamilton's neck. Strong fingers nudge beneath the hinge of his jaw, and Hamilton is nearly hyperventilating as he sucks in air through his nose.

Another blow; another muffled shriek as the pain floods his senses. Washington is talking. Calling him horrible things. Vowing that from now on he will do a better job of giving Hamilton what he needs—putting him in his place—showing him who he belongs to.

Hamilton's heart soars as though these humiliating threats are romantic promises. God, he wishes his real captain would touch him. Would look at him with even a scrap of the possessiveness warming this projection's voice.

Washington brings his palm down again and Hamilton bucks violently. His skin is raw; it burns so badly he knows his uniform will be agony to put back on. He will spend the rest of his night failing to find a comfortable position to sit or sleep, and he will cherish every second of the torturous conundrum.

Another impact has shaken through him when a voice from the crowd shouts, " _Are you gonna fuck him or what_?"

Hamilton freezes. For all the autonomy he's given these characters—within certain strictures they can do and say as they please—this is a new direction for the simulation he's chosen tonight. He has plenty of other fantasies programmed, and most of them involve Washington forcing his cock into Hamilton one way or another. It's not outside the parameters he has programmed into this scenario, which means it's not a sign of anything going wrong.

But it's _new_ , and it is not what he scripted for himself tonight, and Hamilton's heart beats panic-fast as he wonders how this particular Washington—sadistic and brutal as Alexander has programmed him—will answer the question.

Washington's hand stills on his ass, and even that motionless weight is enough to make Hamilton try to wriggle free. The touch turns into a tighter grip, aggravating the deep bruises already beginning to rise beneath the skin, and Hamilton chokes on a pleading sob.

"What do you think, my boy?" Washington asks with an almost convincing illusion of gentleness, even as he squeezes harder and makes Hamilton whimper into his gag. "How hard will you fight if I put my cock in you, right here in front of all these people? Will I have to hurt you to make you behave? Will you scream for us?"

Hamilton shivers. He has already screamed for them. A dozen times. More. But he's sure he will scream louder if Washington fucks him. His skin burns, and he renews his ineffectual attempts at escape. His cock has been stiff since the moment Washington dragged him down and put Hamilton over his knee, but now? Now his hard-on could cut diamonds.

Washington drags him upright, off the couch, an awkward and off-balance effort. Then bends him over the closest piece of furniture. Not a table, strangely enough, but the back of a plush chair. It's the perfect height for forcing Hamilton down, bent at the waist with his ass in the air and no leverage at all. His toes barely brush the floor once Washington puts him in position. He is utterly helpless.

The chair's upholstery is a rough texture that chafes the fronts of his thighs, his stomach, his hyper-sensitive cock. Hamilton moans into the gag. When he squeezes his eyes shut, fresh tears streak down his cheeks. He's so turned on he _aches_ , all the more so for having no idea what's going to happen. Washington holds him in place with one hand, enormous grip circling his bound wrists.

Hamilton startles when his captain's other hand reaches forward and pulls the makeshift gag from his mouth. He jolts when Washington next unties his queue and trails gentle fingers through his hair.

"Tell me, Alexander," Washington murmurs in a deceptively kind tone. "Are you a virgin?"

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton chokes. It's obviously not true—not by a long shot—but for the sake of this tumbling, shattering fantasy, he lies.

His answer is met with malicious cheers from the crowd, all of whom he can see clearly from his vulnerable new position. More filthy suggestions ricochet through the bar. Variations on a repetitive theme: give it to him hard; make him take it; wreck that virgin ass; tear him apart. Hamilton's face burns hotter and he squirms, but there's nowhere he can go. His toes no longer reach the floor. He can't maneuver at all.

The touch vanishes from his hair, and Hamilton's pulse pounds deafening in his ears at the soft rustle of fabric behind him. There is no request for lube; only the sounds of Washington spitting into his palm and slicking himself. And then strong hands shift and take hold of both Hamilton's burning, bruising upper thighs and wrench his legs apart.

There's no mistaking the blunt nudge at the rim of his ass for anything but his captain's cock. Hamiltons whimpers, straining ineffectually at his ropes. Washington only chuckles and holds him steady as the head of his cock breaches the tight entrance.

Hamilton's thrashing screams are not for show. The pain is devastating as he is violated, and he can't get away. That thick length keeps coming. It shoves into him by vicious degrees. Relentless and inescapable.

Washington's grip on his thighs tightens ruthlessly, holding him still until finally—fuck, _finally_ —Washington bottoms out inside him. And oh. Oh god, oh _fuck_ , it hurts so much Hamilton is crying again. Sobbing and shaking and begging his captain to stop.

But Washington only breathes a pleased sound and moves his hands to Hamilton's hips. Draws back a little—Alexander's body resists the rough drag of the cock inside him—and slams forward hard, eliciting another ragged scream.

There are cheers from around the bar, encouragement and violent suggestions. Washington repeats the maneuver, pulling out a little farther this time before ramming his cock home. Hamilton tucks his face against the chair as best he can, trying to hide his tears as Washington fills him. The chair jostles and squeaks against the floor with every jolting thrust, and the heckling only intensifies. The crowd is not programmed to participate physically, but _oh_ do they have opinions as to how Washington should make use of him.

As Hamilton's body adapts to the sizable intrusion of the cock impaling him, he becomes aware once more of the bruised and feverish pain still lingering from Washington's spanking. Every one of his captain's forward thrusts is torment, not just inside Hamilton's body, but where hips snap roughly against abused flesh. Over and over, pounding him against the chair, wringing an endless litany of sobs from Hamilton's throat.

He grunts in surprise when Washington goes utterly, abruptly still. That overwhelming cock is still buried deep inside him, Washington's balls nudging flush between Hamilton's trembling thighs. A stifled groan of pleasure reaches his ears despite the surrounding noise, and he knows his captain is damn close to the precipice.

"My dear boy," Washington pants, sounding far less controlled than he did a few minutes ago. "You are _impossibly_ tight."

"Please stop," Hamilton whimpers. There is zero chance of Washington listening. "Fuck, you're hurting me, _please_."

Washington gives a lazy roll of his hips without pulling out. "But you are _delightful_ when you're in pain, Alexander. I had no idea. Look how perfectly you take my cock. How beautifully you've performed for our audience."

" _No_ ," Hamilton gasps, clenching his body tighter just to hear his captain moan.

Washington's grip on him shifts once more. One hand returns to Hamilton's bound wrists, anchoring him to the chair. The other fists hard in Hamilton's hair and yanks his head up. Making it impossible to pretend away the jeering, hooting, rowdy crowd and all those ravenous eyes staring at his humiliation.

"Don't hide your face, Alexander," Washington admonishes.

Hamilton yanks against the grip in his hair but only manages to make his scalp sting when Washington's grip holds unbreakably steady.

" _They_ know who you belong to," Washington murmurs, though he sounds more strained with every passing second. "They know you're mine to do with as I please."

" _Stop_ ," Hamilton gasps as Washington draws back and fucks forward hard, reminding Hamilton of how raw and brutalized his captain has already rendered him. He whimpers when the movement repeats, filling him with an even less forgiving rhythm that—now it's begun again—does not slow.

" _No_." Washington keeps his grip in Hamilton's hair and will not let him hide. "Stop fighting me, Alexander."

Hamilton sobs, chokes unsteady breaths as Washington's pace turns even more sadistic. He loses all track of time as he is fucked, every second a more vicious agony than the one before. His eyes are closed now, his face wet, his scalp stinging from the tight twist of fingers in his hair. He can barely breathe as he is violently taken.

It's not the worst detour one of his fantasies has ever followed, but it's close. Humiliation sings beneath overheated skin as dozens of voices cheer Washington toward the finish line. There's a trickle of wetness between Hamilton's thighs as Washington pounds into his exhausted and over-used body.

At last Washington stills with a groan, spilling deep in Hamilton's abused ass. There is no acknowledgment of _Hamilton's_ unspent arousal. There is only his captain's sudden orgasm. And then a moment later the softening but still uncomfortable girth of Washington's cock pulling roughly out of him. Hamilton cries out at the new and distinct flavor of pain, and barely registers the rush of vertigo as he's dragged down from the chair and dropped onto the dirty floor.

When he blinks his eyes open, he finds Washington standing over him. Staring down at him with unmasked satisfaction and a hint of pride.

"Good boy," his captain murmurs.

An instant later, the image of Washington vanishes, along with the crowd of strangers, and finally the bar itself: the program automatically deactivating at the end of its run-time. The ropes around Hamilton's wrists dissolve and vanish, and he finds himself lying on the familiar black-and-yellow grid of the holodeck floor. He's still half naked—the rest of his uniform is somewhere close by—and his newly collected hurts and bruises remain, all too real.

He is still achingly hard, and he takes himself in hand, bringing himself off with desperate efficiency. His orgasm is short, and intense, and he is crying when he comes back down.

 _Fuck_ , he hurts. He wishes he had the time and the physical fortitude to start the program over from the beginning, but he's only got fifteen minutes before his coveted holodeck time ends. So he settles for sitting carefully up and cataloguing his current state.

His wrists are abraded but not quite bloodied. His bruised ass aches against the cool floor. His cock and thighs have goddamn rug burn from the chair's rough fabric. And of course, deep inside him is a more intimate, throbbing pain that he knows all too well from previous experience. The damage will be difficult to conceal—will inevitably interfere with his natural gait when he retreats to his quarters in a few short minutes—and it will certainly not heal by morning.

There's blood staining his inner thighs—the holographic Washington really did tear Hamilton apart.

Hamilton groans and closes his eyes, savoring the pain and heat and humiliation. When he tries to imagine the real Washington touching him so cruelly, his clever mind comes up blank. When he tries to imagine the real Washington touching him at all, it is nearly as impossible to picture. George Washington is a good man, and a good captain, and Hamilton will never admit to him all the things he craves.

When he knows he can't stay put any longer, he gets slowly to his feet. Finds his uniform pants, his boots, and gets dressed with difficulty. He gives up quickly on trying to track down the tie for his queue; no one will think twice about him leaving the holodeck with his hair down. They certainly won't reach the correct conclusions about his activities based on that proof alone.

The door unlocks at his approach, and slides open when Hamilton gets close. The corridor beyond is blessedly empty.

Hamilton casts one last glance over the empty holodeck, then steps across the threshold. Back to reality and heading home.


End file.
